


Neverending Melody

by elzierav



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Awkward Flirting, Band Fic, Clover trusts him and is there for him, Confessions, M/M, Outfits, Qrow is a mopey genius birb, Rock Stars, Scars, Seasons, fairgameweekend2020, no beta we die on this misspelled mountain, starlight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26789884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: Also known as Elz tries to do Fair Game Weekend 2020.In Remnant, every name is a colour. Unique, incomplete, radiant in its very own way. In Qrow’s head, every name is a melody. Every colour is a melody, every person is the beginning of a song, radiant and ever-expanding as time trickles by, as life flows by. A secret melody only he can hear, its soft tunes caressing his eardrums for slow seconds as synesthesia operates.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20





	1. Day 1: Outfits/Confession

**Author's Note:**

> It's the first day, and I'm already late. Welp. At least I tried (I said I wasn't gonna do this because of other obligations, and then I jumped onto the bandwagon last minute, dont mind me). Also, this is gonna be a single story split into three-ish chapters following the prompts, because my brain decided so.
> 
> Warnings: mentions of death, past alcoholism
> 
> Here, have a chapter teaser song quote:
> 
> "So when I'm all choked up  
> And I can't find the words  
> Every time we say goodbye  
> Baby, it hurts  
> When the sun goes down  
> And the band won't play  
> I'll always remember us this way"  
> Lady Gaga - Always Remember Us This Way

In Remnant, every name is a colour. Unique, incomplete, radiant in its very own way. In Qrow’s head, every name is a melody. Every colour is a melody, every person is the beginning of a song, radiant and ever-expanding as time trickles by, as life flows by. A secret melody only he can hear, its soft tunes caressing his eardrums for slow seconds as synesthesia operates. 

It’s been years now, since his song was interrupted. 

It happened when her song ended, never to restart again, never to return for an encore. The silence that replaced her heartbeat after the accident - that’s the silence that replaced his own melody now. 

That’s the silence that broke STRQ apart, at the peak of the band’s fame. 

That’s the silence that caused him to stop playing, never to return, not even to deliver his swan song on the piano. 

Well, correction. 

He did return, but it was only for the girls, and only because they begged him to. 

The silence is helpful sometimes - when it comes to listening. 

His long, deft fingers resting atop the keys, he senses the virtuose vibrato in Weiss’s voice as she reaches the highest note of her riff, the rest of the band hanging in anticipation as if weightless. He senses it, when she’s ready to land, when gravity’s ready to reclaim her, to reclaim the suspended audience. He senses it, when he can move in to catch her. 

He senses it - and catches her. His fingers start moving in a turbulent flourish just in time for the final word of Weiss’s performance to end atop his arpeggio, dragging the rest of the band with them. On the guitar, Ruby placates a boisterous cadenza, her blood red instrument contrasting starkly against the puffy black taffetas of her frilled, layered skirt, attracting all eyes on stage and off. Cutting out an elegant shadow backlit by the projectors, Blake on the bass guitar echoes with a chord of her own, while Yang lets the cymbals vibrate for a handful of ephemeral seconds more before silencing her drums. 

The silence is a sign. And opposite the stage, the audience claps merrily, cheering for the Crescent Roses. For the up-and-coming girl band, and their benevolent uncle-turned-manager now turned pianist guest star at the last minute because Blake wanted to try her hand at the bass guitar and left him to deal with the keyboard. 

The Crescent Roses were Ruby’s idea. Qrow is just following them, because Tai’s too busy with his own career being a judge on The Voice or whatever. Qrow is just following them. Nobody here is following him. Nobody turned up in hopes of seeing the once-great Qrow Branwen at the piano. Nobody cares - he’s a has been now. 

After the years that followed her death, after the years of rehab after that - no one even really remembers him, these days. No one even really remembers what his song sounds like, because he’s forgotten it for so many years now. 

Instead of his song haunting his ears, he’s gotten used to the silence now. The silence is useful. He can listen to the girls, be there whenever they need, wherever they need. 

The changing rooms are full of mirrors, bright lights, accessories and assortments of make-up palettes scattered across the way too cluttered tables. Squinting slightly, legs crossed on a cramped bench in the corner, Qrow stares down at his Scroll, messaging Tai about how the girls’ concert went. 

Yang’s growing more and more confident by the day at the drums, experimenting boldly while still supporting the whole band like a beating heart. Weiss’s singing has improved drastically since she started writing her own lyrics, to speak out about her own experiences, while Ruby and Blake write the melody and arrangements. Qrow… he just listens to the melodies over his background of perpetual silence, and he follows, accompanying whatever fits the key. Doing whatever they need, whatever it takes for them to be happy. 

“Uncle Qrow? Have you seen my jacket? The one with all the pride flag pins. I need to find it before we leave.”

Brushing his hair off his face, he texts a quick ‘ _ gotta go help the girls change into more comfy outfits to go listen to the actual concert. Ur kids played well in the first part _ ’ for Tai and before putting away his phone. 

“Nope, firecracker. Have you checked the second compartment of the snow princess’s bag, top pocket?”

“Second compartment from the outside or the inside?”

“Kiddo, there’s three compartments. It’s the same whether from the outside or...”

“Found it,” Blake supplies, tossing the accessory in the blonde drummer’s direction, before returning to wiping off her bright, sparkly stage make-up to opt for a more subdued look, her cat-eared headphones hanging loosely around her neck. “Thanks uncle Qrow.”

Blake isn’t his niece, but he guesses she could have been. They’re both good listeners.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Ruby urges, bouncing up and down in excitement. “The real show’s gonna start soon! I don’t wanna miss the first song!”

“As much as I hate to say it,” Weiss comments, “the Atlas Aseops are scheduled to start in ten minutes, and they’re never late.”

“Okay, okay,” Qrow grumbles, only just noticing he hasn’t washed away his own make-up yet. 

Blake had insisted on drawing the charcoal lines that spread out like bird’s wings from the corners of his eyes, highlighting the alabaster skin, and even a subtle smokey eye atop his lids. Hell, he’d even let Yang spread that arc of bronze-tinted bronzer just under his cheekbones, because though he could never understand that weird habit of kids these days to draw weird brownish lines on their cheeks because it helped chisel the contour of a face or whatever. Since it made them happy, he just shrugged and complied, a helpless victim of their make-up experiments. 

Now, he doesn’t have time, so he should just shrug and comply, as usual. Find the dark grey hoodie with the feather patterns at the bottom of his bag, pull the hood up so people wouldn’t notice his over the top make-up, and he’d be fine. No one would notice him, anyway…

“Branwen. You better have an explanation for this.”

He suppresses a sigh, already recognising the woman who just burst in through the door just from the sound of her voice and the click of her heels. 

“Good evening to you too, Ice Queen. It’s been a while. How’s Robyn doing?”

She races in, adjusting her somewhat dishevelled bun of white hair and acknowledging her younger sister with a small nod. She acknowledges him too, as an equal - from the manager of the Atlas Aesops to the one of the Crescent roses - and that she does with a scowl. She doesn’t have time, and the music emanating out of her now is a fugue, a tempest of rapid, irregular notes. She’d rather be anywhere at the moment than here, opposite Qrow Branwen. 

“Vine lost his music sheets for That’s Fortunate. Piano sheets. Says piano at the top left, one treble clef, one bass...”

“I know what a piano score looks like, Winter,” he interrupts. “I never use them much, but I had to pretend to care when I was in music school.”

“Have you seen it? The title is ‘That’s Fortunate’, printed in caps...”

“Nope. Well. That’s unfortunate.”

Ignoring his jibe, Winter’s already searching frantically looking through the heaps of random pages hanging around the changing room, soon joined by Qrow and the kids. Throwing papers around, fluttering through the air, to little to no avail. 

“Who needs a sheet on concert day anyway?” he finally pauses, tossing a last handful of pages like confetti. “What are you guys? Amateurs?”

“Tell that to Clover. He wrote the song yesterday night, and wanted to include it for his sister’s birthday or whatever. The whole band has been rehearsing it all day, despite the flights and all that, but without sheets they’d be lost. Clover’s been running around...”

“Clover? The Aesop bandleader? Can I meet him? Can I get his autograph?” Ruby wails at the white-haired manager, practically turning into the human version of the heart-eyed emoji she adores so much, drawing a sigh and a shrug from her uncle.

“Only if you find the sheet, Miss Rose,” Winter snaps back.

Qrow never got what’s the deal with the Aesops. He doesn’t understand they’re at the top of the charts at the moment, why the Crescent Roses were so elated to play in the first part of the Aesops’ concert, but whatever. The Atlesian band were cute when they started out as an a cappella band and won some talent competition. But now they’ve struck a deal with Ironwood’s record label, they’ve added instruments despite none of them playing really well, because of the electronics and effects that Jimmy’s high tech studios have to offer. Jimmy knows what he’s doing, Qrow has to admit, but working with him had simply been too controlling, too creativity-stifling, not STRQ’s cup of tea back in the day. 

Seeing the small variety of the chords in their generic pop songs, Qrow even wonders if the guitar that’s always hanging over Clover Ebi’s abdomen is to hide a flabby stomach or something. No wonder Vine Zeki’s got trouble remembering the piano part - the guy’s a genius in polyphonic singing, not on the keys. 

“Mr. Branwen? Oh, Winter, you found Mr. Branwen. Thanks, Winter.”

That voice. The suave sound of that voice alone makes Ruby prance over in fangirl anticipation, makes Blake stiffen in her seat and take off her earphones, makes Yang push her hair back behind her ears to make sure she’s heard well, even makes Weiss give out a small, barely audible gasp. 

“Clover?” Winter prompts. “Tell me you got lucky and retrieved the sheets.”

“Unfortunately not. But Qr - Mr Branwen? I can call you Qrow, right?”

The girls’ uncle nods as he swivels around. 

And the songs stop, and time stops, reducing everything into frozen silence, blissful silence.

The first thing Qrow notices is that the great Clover Ebi doesn’t have a guitar in front of his stomach right now, and no that thing doesn’t need to be there to hide imperfect abs in any way. The contours of his torso are defined, sculptural, straight out of ancient greek ideals for masculine beauty, and that sinfully tight white T-shirt does nothing to conceal that. 

About that. Atlas Aesop outfits are usually hit or miss. They’ve got this whole uniform but unique vibe, and can slip into the downright campy or boy-scout-esque. But this one works surprisingly well. The white shirt is marked with a simple band logo, squarely sitting atop expanses of muscular chest, paired with a sleeveless waistcoat, deep blue as night, and matching tailored trousers. Around his bicep, a red kerchief is tied, and from what Qrow’s seen from the other Aesops, they have touch of red too, unifying their outfit styles. Unique, but uniform. 

But the most unique sight is those eyes, standing out amidst an outfit of primary colours. Those eyes, as turquoise as the ocean in the tropics under the sun, as turquoise as the venetian canals in the paintings of the old masters. Those eyes, whose shade is too unique to be reflected anywhere on that outfit, save maybe for the gold and electric blue piercing in one of Clover’s ears, and the green four-leaved shamrock pin clasped upon his lapel. Those eyes that sing a thousand songs of their own, each mesmerising, transcending, neverending…

“Earth to Branwen?” Winter waves a perfectly manicured hand before his face. 

“Huh?”

“Please take your time to answer, I understand it’s not the easiest question,” Clover supplies, and it helps that this voice can sing neverending songs, and Qrow wouldn’t mind listening in the slightest bit…

“He asked you if you’d be up for playing the piano accompaniment,” the Aesop manager helpfully repeats. 

“Me? Without a score? You mean… improvising?”

“Well, yes,” the band leader replies with an easy smile. “You’re the famous Qrow Branwen, you can improvise in your sleep, that’s what you’re known for. That’s what you do for a living.”

“... Improvising in my sleep?” Qrow cocks a disbelieving eyebrow. 

“Improvising. At any and all times. This song isn’t even that hard, it goes pa da da pa da...”

The kids’ uncle gives a fond chuckle at that as Weiss grins appreciatively and the rest of the girls melt onto a puddle on the changing room concrete. The song’s nothing but standard chords, but what’s endearing is the way Clover hums all the parts from soprano to bass, hopping around like it’s no big deal and he does it everyday before breakfast. 

“It just starts with F, and then it goes B flat, C and then...”

“No shit, shamrock,” Qrow drawls, noticing Weiss’s hair tie slipped off and leaning over to fix her braid and tie it back at the end. “I heard that.”

He can mostly do it with one hand, while the fingers of his other hand rummage the wooden table like a virtual piano, mapping the chords that are imprinted in his memory, engraved so deeply into his bones that he could retrieve them in the complete dark of a starless night. 

“So is that a yes, Qrow?”

“I mean… it’s just that I...”

It’s hard to say. It’s hard to break the silence. He already has in the past, multiple times even, but every time he confesses to a new person, it hurts. Everytime he has to admit the brokenness, the silence, the scars that even time, even rehab hasn’t healed, it hurts. Everytime he has to tell someone new that the talent, the incredible talent at improv that used to define him, to make him the great Qrow Branwen, is gone, shattered forever now, leaving him empty, hollow, silent. Silenced at the same time as his song stopped like a scratched record, and he won’t heal enough, he’ll never heal enough to be able to play like before again. 

“I understand if you say no,” Clover stammers, uncharacteristically nervous for such an A-list rockstar. “I’m just grateful I finally got to meet you, you were one of my idols growing up, and you still are now.”

Qrow draws a deep breath.

“It’s just that I haven’t improvised since… you know. Since STRQ wasn’t a thing anymore.”

He feels weightless, he feels like he’s dropping through the void, the tempo stuttering into immobility amidst a cadenza, except that no one’s here to catch him, because no one was ever there to catch him. 

And then Clover stares at him wide-eyed, like he’s said the bravest thing he’s ever heard. Even Winter uncrosses her arms, suddenly staring at him like he’s a human being and no longer a prop or a punching bag. Blake leans over Weiss’s shoulder to give him a discreet, friendly squeeze on his arm, but Ebi’s eyes don’t miss that detail, instead starting to twinkle like stars.

“Well, at least you won’t rehash the same boring stuff we hear every day these days,” Clover remarks. “And I know you’ve still got it in you, one can’t forget these things, but I get it if you wanna take your time before returning to those things and the memories they bring back.” 

“Take your time?” Winter winces. “We’ve got five minutes left before you have to be on set, boss.”

“Five minutes! Thank gods you’re here, Winter,” the band leader says, clapping her on the shoulder and earning a stare as sharp as a knife edge. “I gotta text my sister, make sure she’s listening live when her song comes up.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to just scrap this song?” his manager asks. “It’s too new, and you don’t even have a pianist.”

“It’s for my sister. It’s been entirely too long since I did her anything for her birthday, since what happened to Mother.”

“You’re certain?” Winter checks again. 

It’s been too long. On that Qrow can agree. It’s been too long since he and his own twin were in contact, after all that happened. The memories of each other are too tainted with the memories of what happened, the songs in their heads end in muffled cries and beeps on a cardiac monitor, beeps that progressively slow down until a continuous tone… No. Qrow can’t think about that now. He can’t fall apart now. He has to be strong. For the kids. For Winter and Clover waiting for him. For Clover’s poor sister, who deserves her birthday song and has nothing to do with this tragic story. For Qrow’s own sister, for poor Raven even though she went away, went solo, only occasionally sending gift cards for Yang’s birthday.

“You know what? Okay,” Qrow finally capitulates. “But just this one song, nothing else. And I want my own keyboard, not that synth abomination that you guys brought from up north. And I want access to the nice fruit baskets in the Aesops’ private lounge backstage.”

“What a diva,” Winter sighs, tossing a sparkly bright pink feather scarf she must’ve found somewhere around the changing room.

“By the Brothers, Winter, you’re a lifesaver,” a strangely flustered Clover notes. “You just reminded me I should get Mr. Branwen… I mean, Qrow, a matching outfit to go onstage with us.”

“Wait, what? No, I didn’t agree to that. I add that condition to the contract. Ice Queen, can you change the paperwork? Please? Pretty please?”

But before he can protest any more, Clover and Winter practically drag him into the Atlas Aesop changing room, where costumes hang on hangers in apple pie order. Not that he minds the manhandling all that much - but his pride has seen better days. 

“This should work, put it over your shirt,” the band leader announces, tossing him an ivory suit jacket that must’ve been part of Vine’s costume at some point. 

The sleeves are too long, but the fit isn’t too bad otherwise, Qrow notices with relief, rolling the sleeves all the way up to his elbows so it won’t get noticed as he adjusts the garment over his plain grey dress shirt. 

“Here’s the matching pants,” Winter calls out, throwing the item in Clover’s direction. “I’ll find him something red, you should really head onstage.”

“Don’t worry, Winter, I got lucky and stumbled onto exactly what we need.”

As Qrow turns around to face him, he lets out a small gasp - Clover’s too close, his face is too close, his hands are too close. And that’s on purpose, since he’s holding up a crimson tie next to the pianist’s face, his eyes darting back and forth between the accessory and Qrow’s vermillion irises.

“I think this colour is the best match we got,” the lead singer says, leaning in to wrap the tie around Qrow’s collar and expertly knot the soft satin fabric. “As red as your eyes.”

“Please, no white pants, I beg you,” the slightly shorter man groans, keenly aware of warm fingers tying a knot right before his Adam’s apple, of soft breaths falling delicately upon his skin as Clover adjusts the tie, tongue sticking out in focus.

“Relax. It’s just pants,” the brunette winks, “and I know you’re eager to match our red colour scheme, but no need to blush like that.”

With those words, Clover gives him a friendly tap on the cheek, his lightly calloused thumb brushing the corner of Branwen’s lips. That might be just an accidental happening. That’d be just Qrow’s luck, really.

“Woops, I smeared your lip gloss, Qrow. How clumsy of me.”

The older man holds his breath as Clover’s thumb moves back in to swipe the make-up back in the other direction. Then, the singer lets go of the red tie, and Qrow can breathe again, stumbling back to reclaim his personal space before immediately wondering if that was a mistake. He could get to the flowery scent of Clover’s cologne, to the fresh notes that remind him of a bird singing on the prairie at sunrise. 

“It’s alright, I can turn around while you try the pants. I should get going anyway.”

“Ugh. Fine. You Atlesians are dictators,” Qrow groans, turning the other way with extreme gratefulness, for he’d rather not let Clover see the… situation that just perked up in his underpants while he gets changed. 

Ever the gentleman, Ebi steps away, checking some matter or other with Winter while Qrow discards his skinny black jeans. Only then does the pianist recall an issue at hand…

“Uh… can you hold this for me?” he holds out his belt to Clover, blushing harder than ever before.

“Sure.”

The thin leather belt, that fit perfectly around Qrow’s trim waist, looks comically small in the other man’s large hands, and the smaller man’s left wondering how the belt would look, wrapped around that sizable, stunning bicep, what would happen if he ties it and tugged on one end, drawing the rockstar closer, figuring out what his perfume evokes up close…

“Okay, done,” Qrow pants finally.

The white pants, having belonged to Vine, are sinfully tight, bordering too transparent for Qrow’s age and taste, but somehow, at least the fabric pulls in the right way for the length to be perfectly appropriate. And somehow, he can walk in those. He stumbles a little, leaning onto Clover for support which he finds to be gladly offered, his heart is beating fast, his breathing is slightly laboured as he loosens the tie almost imperceptibly… but at least, he can walk. 

“Everything okay?” Clover prompts affably, wrapping a friendly arm around his shoulders. “You don’t have stage fright, do you?”

“I’m the great Qrow Branwen, remember?” the other deadpans raspily.

“Perfect. Let’s head onstage, then.”

  
  
  
  



	2. Day 2: Scars/starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know your name  
> I know your face  
> Your touch and grace  
> All of time cannot erase  
> What our hearts remember stays  
> Forever on a song we play"  
> Thomas Bergensen - Star Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the star is born AU no one ever asked for, where this time I gush about music for pretty much the whole thing. I promise, this thing ends well though. Disclaimer: I don’t play piano.

The wooden planks softly creak underfoot when he steps onstage, sitting behind the keyboard, but all he hears is silence. 

Clover makes a joke, introduces him as the legendary Qrow Branwen, but all he hears is silence.

Maybe the audience chortles, maybe the audience cheers, Qrow wouldn’t know, for all he hears is silence.

He sits in silence, he sits in darkness, and even the bright stage lights overhead are but distant suns, distant stars in the black bubble of his concentration. His fingers are tense on the keys, tense as loaded bows. Somewhere, somewhere far away, maybe Clover shoots him a reassuring glance, teal eyes shining brighter than the brightest starlight he’s ever seen.

And then, the music starts. 

It’s like someone shines a light on the world. And the world spins again, spins anew.

The world has a new axis, but the axis doesn’t even make sense. The song is a list of factoids, a list of memories, probably. Memories Clover shared with that sister of his, probably. It’s nothing magical musically, but it’s still cacophony to Qrow’s ears, because nothing in there is familiar, nothing in there vibrates at the same frequency as his heart strings. 

Nothing makes sense, so he breaks it down. Slamming chords onto the keyboard with the precision and monotony of an automaton - it’s perfect, but he hates it. The Aesops’ vocals stack atop the chords, beautifully, harmonically. It’s balanced, but he hates it. Slamming keys like slamming his head against a wall, hoping something will come out, hoping inspiration will come out like it used to, like it came out when alcohol was burning its way through the inhibitions in his addled mind. Slamming keys like slamming his head against a wall, knowing deep down only blood will come out, because nothing is unbroken any more in that bloody head of his. 

Nothing makes sense, until he breaks it down. 

The repeated chords have reached their powerful paroxysm, their strength enough to entrain Elm’s solos on the drums, Marrow’s walking on the double bass, Harriet’s voicings at the guitar, Clover and Vine’s subtle harmonies, to entrain a whole audience, a whole stadium at the pace of the perfect, unbroken rhythm, at the pace of the broken, imperfect music. 

Until the key changes, like someone found a key, opened the cage, and frees the bird who takes flight. 

And then, Qrow’s fingers take flight. Only the tense memory of loud placated chords remain at his fingertips, crafting the softest of trills as delicately as one manipulates lace, afraid that it might rip. The Aesops’ voices atop create embroidery, light, painting, art. It’s all ephemeral, weightless, and it can finally speak to everyone. Because those memories, those happy memories of a perfect sister, Qrow doesn’t have, cannot have, will never have, but remembering the way the sun felt on his face? The way the sand felt between his toes? The way the rain felt on his skin? The broken pieces, the shattered pieces, it’s imperfect, but it all makes sense. 

Qrow’s broken, and it makes sense. 

Qrow’s shattered, and it makes sense. 

Qrow’s imperfect, incomplete, a fallen rockstar, a damn mess of scars, and it makes sense. 

What happens when a star falls? 

The same as what happens when a rock falls all the way from space. A bright light, brighter than any usual starlight, a meteoritic trace blazing through the sky. And then, the impact. The breaking. The shattering into stardust. Ineluctable, irreparable. Stars can’t heal. Stars can’t scar. The public won’t love them again, no one will love them, no one will ever remember them after a while. They just become stardust. Cracked, damaged fragments of stardust.

And time drifts between the cracks, like water drifts between his fingers, no matter with how much agility, how much virtuosity they move, and he knows he must move on, he knows that the song can’t go on like this forever, in this instant of ethereal softness, in the calm between the storms…

And then, Clover picks up on the trill. His effortlessly satiny voice picks up on the piano notes, riffs almost playfully on them - and transforms them. 

Qrow’s imperfect, but it’s okay. 

Imperfect, but he doesn’t need to be alone. 

Because Clover’s here… he’s here now. 

Here to catch Qrow if… no, to catch him  _ when  _ he falls.

And Qrow takes the bait, ready to be reeled in. He complexifies the tremulous motion of his fingers, prances a major third higher, teasing back, taunting back to see if Clover can take it. 

Clover takes it, and then gives back. 

More than he took, more than the pianist ever hoped to get in return. More than Qrow ever expected to get in his whole life, because the unimaginable is happening here. A lead vocalist is accompanying his pianist, repeating the same motifs with the rest of the Atlas Aesops so Qrow can weave a new melody atop - a new, ever-changing melody. 

And bouncing back and forth between them, the melody flourishes into cascades of arpeggios rummaging up and down the keyboard, spiralling up and down the lead singer’s astounding range. The melody’s growing, converging at the singers and musicians’ increased synchrony, flowing like a solitary spring slowly turns to a mighty river, carving its path through the dirt on either bank, carving its path through the stardust, a river they may never see reach the ocean, but it’s okay now because it’s bigger than them now, because everyone can hear it and feel it and remember it, because the audience can hear it and remember it, because the cameras can record it and remember it. 

Because somewhere far away, somewhere in the distance, Clover’s sister might hear it and remember it, if they’re lucky. 

Because somewhere in the distance, somewhere far away, if they’re lucky, Raven can hear it too. 

The song’s imperfect, incomplete, still unfinished. But it’s okay, because they’re together now. And it’s okay, because together, they’re never ending. And it’s okay for a song to be incomplete, when it’s neverending. 

Unfortunately, all things must come to an end. Even good things must come to an end. Verses must end, choruses must end, songs must end, at some time even magical moments must come to die. It takes a few repeats, perfectly synchronous and well-timed like a ticking clock, for Qrow to be ready for it. Until they’re all ready for it. Sweeping arpeggios melt in gentle decrescendo like a fountain that dies, a fountain that vanishes in the distance, and the other players and singers fade too, from the deepest bass to the highest harmonies, until all that’s left is three of Qrow’s fingers drumming on the keyboard, drumming like the last drops of rainfall.

That, and Clover’s voice, barely a song, barely a sigh, barely a broken, spoken word, but a promise, an unbreakable promise. 

A promise to remember moving forward, to work hard on apologising for all the past times he forgot, a promise to acknowledge their scars and the rifts they created in their families. A promise to try and mend the wounds of the past, even one may fail, fall, get hurt, get scarred once more, only to get back up and try again. 

“Happy birthday, Ivy.”

Everything after the performance is a blur. 

Qrow’s on his phone again, the girls are taking selfies with the Atlas Aesops, both artists and technical staff bring in pizzas and drinks into the crowded changing rooms. 

Qrow wants to message Raven, but he’s not sure what to say. He doesn’t really want to scroll up to see their previous conversations, he just wants to speak his heart. Maybe he should send a selfie? Or perhaps that would be too juvenile…

“C’mon, snap that pic. You look great right now, dude,” Clover calls out as he sees the keyboardist putting his Scroll back down. “I’m sure your girlfriend will love it.”

“Nope, that’s no girlfriend. My sister,” Qrow scowls, showing the small icon of his twin’s ever unflappable features. 

“The legendary Raven Branwen?”

“Oh, will you stop with that? It makes me feel old.”

“So you wanna feel young? Come hang out with us, the young people. The band’s heading to a bar after this. Marrow knows the place, he says they serve great cocktails, wanna join?”

“Nah. I don’t really… I should head to the hotel with the kids. We’re touristing around the city tomorrow morning, and then we’ll catch our flight back home.”

“That’s a terrible excuse. Winter? Can you take care of your sister and her bandmates? Make sure they safely get a taxi to their hotel?”

“On it, boss.”

Winter is many things, but she’s careful and reliable, and Qrow can’t imagine her doing anything compromising her younger sister’s safety a single second. 

“Thanks, shamrock. I really appreciate it. I’m just so sorry I’m such terrible company, I don’t really do bars any more...”

The omnipresent scent of alcohol, the glassy sound of bottles and shot glasses slammed onto the counter over the loud background music, even the smell of human perspiration saturated with the stench of scotch...

“No, wait. You don’t have to be sorry about that. Not drinking is a great choice you made for your family and yourself, it must’ve been difficult and I totally respect and admire that. We can just hang out if you’d like. Take a walk or something.”

“Sure.”

Walking is nice, it adds pulsation and synchrony to their thoughts. At night, the old stone canal outside and its lazy, fresh waters echo like a cathedral, and their footsteps are quiet on the narrow footpath. Qrow just wishes the outside air wasn’t so cold at this time. He had to return Vine’s suit to its owner, naturally, so it’s only his grey hoodie keeping him warm now - that and a too-wide jacket the Aesop band leader threw over his shoulder, still warm and smelling like Clover’s cologne and -

“Do you mind if I ask you something personal?”

“Shoot, Cloves.”

Qrow doesn’t do too well with personal questions. They all lead back to the same place, the same time, the same melody. The accident, the disbanding of STRQ, and all that ensues, to scars that need to be left alone if they ever want to heal. If they can ever heal. 

But for Clover, he guesses he can make an exception.

“When I was listening to old STRQ albums, I wrote a song about… well, that’s embarrassing. About you and your work and life, an homage, kinda.”

The pianist has never seen the rising rockstar so nervous, eyes flickering down to his shoes, fingers running through his mess of brown hair, finally dropping the perfect mask to be himself offstage, through all of him and not just his music. It’s adorable, really.

“I’m flattered, but there’s nothing wrong about that. Surely you must have droves of fangirls writing songs about your pretty eyes and perky butt or whatever interests them.”

“The thing is, I worked on it a bit just now and...”

“Gosh, do you Atlesians never stop working?”

“... I worked on it just now, and it became a duet. About you and me.”

“Really?” Qrow deadpans. “I have no idea where you found that weird idea. A duet!” 

“I understand if it’s really awkward, but do you want to read it? I’ve got it here in my note - wait, hang on, you have my jacket. It’s in the inner pocket on this side - wait no - just let me.”

Qrow’s breath catches as warm fingers - how does he stay so warm, even with bare arms outside in the cold, not that the keyboardist would ever complain - gently push his jacket open, grazing Qrow’s torso through his T-shirt to grab onto a small, green leather-bound notebook in a pocket just against his heart. 

The accessory smells like old books and authentic leather, and a pencil is strapped to the side. Quickly leafing through the pages to find the relevant song, Clover drags the smaller man beneath a street lamp and hands him the notebook. 

And then, it all makes sense. Qrow already knew, since their melodies said what they said onstage, but now it’s crystal clear, it couldn’t be more clear. The lyrics were contemplative, but dark, minor chords scribbled in the margins, until the new part Clover pencilled in. Qrow’s broken, but he doesn’t have to be alone. Qrow’s scarred, but somebody is here for him, to catch him… or at least, try to.

“Sorry if I made any… uh… assumptions about you, y’know. Assuming is making an ass out of you and me, and...”

“Why do I feel like I’m being the butt of the joke?”

Clover stifles a little laugh, like the crystalline notes from a celesta, the wind through the strings of a harp, the most heavenly music Qrow has ever heard. 

“May I?” the pianist asks after a beat, drawing out the pencil and tentatively tapping it against the page. 

“Go ahead! Anything you’d like!”

The sound of the graphite scratching against the page is both torture and tenderness to Clover’s ears, the line it traces, cursive, tangled, and turbulent, is his lifeline now. Everything else is too silent, and he can’t tell if it’s good or bad when Qrow’s brows knit in concentration, before the older man hands him back the notebook. 

“Oh. Where… I see. The bridge… let me see if the melody I had in mind still fits?”

He clears his throat as if for effect; he didn’t struggle singing parts with multiple octave jumps with no preparation before. But this… this is personal, too close to the heart, too close to too damaged hearts…

“ _ I won’t erase your scars,  _

_ Just rearrange our lucky stars, _

_ And that’s where we’ll start _ ...”

“Oh, uh, sorry. I was listening to you, don’t worry. Just… figured out what to write to my sister.”

“That’s great!”

A respiration.

“You helped. A lot.”

A hesitation.

“I’m glad.”

Qrow’s hand reaches for Clover’s - a small gesture, compared to what they’ve shared already, in melodies, in words. A small gesture, but at the source of every mighty river is a solitary spring. And once a river carves its own path, through dust and stone and stardust, it’s unstoppable, ineluctable, neverending just as their melodies are.

“Can I...” Qrow murmurs breathlessly, fingers travelling up Clover’s arm.

“Yes. Please.”

Maybe there is starlight, somewhere far away, somewhere in the distance, when their lips meet halfway, slotting together messily, imperfectly, and that’s okay. And they’re broken, scarred, stardust, and that’s okay. Their melodies are merging, melding, until it doesn’t matter anymore who’s a falling star, who’s a rising star - their trajectories are entwined now, spiralling out of orbit amidst the vastness of cosmos. But their lips move together slowly, reverently like a song now, a song that’s just for the two of them, and the stars may be jealous, the cosmos may be jealous, they couldn’t care less. 

They know all good things must come to an end. They know their lips must part. They know their paths will part, that the career of a rockstar is ever-moving, ever-changing, always unpredictable. They know their melodies will have to diverge, and there is bitterness, there is melancholy in the kiss. A tear rolls down Qrow’s cheek like a drop of starlight, and Clover’s hand moves in to kiss it before it can fall into the night, the darkness, the silence. 

“You okay?” the lead vocalist whispers. 

“More than okay.”

“Then let’s try that again.”

“Thought you’d never ask, shamrock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song Clover quotes at the end does exist in full, I wrote it a while back but you can find it here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSbJHHNvjzs


	3. Day 3: Fantasy AU/Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Keys that jingle in your pocket  
> Words that jangle in your head  
> Why did Summer go so quickly  
> Was it something that you said?  
> Lovers walk along a shore  
> And leave their footprints in the sand  
> Was the sound of distant drumming  
> Just the fingers of your hand?”  
> Noel Harrison - Windmills Of Your Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah no, not much of a fantasy AU here... but you'll see ;)

Their melodies sometimes merge, sometimes meld, sometimes part as seasons come, seasons go, but seasons are never the same. Rehearsing, recording, touring takes them all over the continents, hardly ever leaving them time to rest, to reflect, to interact at all. Fall flies by so quickly, as swiftly as leaves fall in the wind. Fallen leaves crackle underfoot, a soft, haunting tune, a sweet scent of earth after the rain, still cluttered in iridescent droplets. Knitting together the bed of fallen leaves, there’s cobwebs, cobwebs everywhere, and everything smells like dust and memories.

Patch is an island amidst the sea, a calmness amidst the storm. The kids and Qrow drop by for Ruby’s birthday, even Tai is there. Tai’s been learning to live on his own with just the kids for years now. He’s been learning to live on, to move on, and every step has been hard, and he’s not even done learning, but at least he’s learnt to make a good roast. The old wooden kitchen’s saturated with the alluring odour of thick gravy, distilling the delectable sounds of still sizzling meat. 

“Uncle Qrow! Dinner’s ready!”

“I’m coming down. One sec, firecracker.”

“Oooh, is Uncle Qrow in love?”

“Shhh, Rubes. He’s on the phone.”

They’ve been whirling around the world, all of them, and more often than not they’re not in the same time zone. Time zones are a tricky thing, a difficult act to balance like the ephemeral openness of the first half of a cadenza, before the song can end somewhere major or somewhere minor. Qrow’s Scroll rings into the void, once, twice, thrice, before someone finally picks up. 

“Hey, pretty bird.”

A sleepy, yet still satiny voice - enough to stir Qrow’s heartstrings into an accelerated tempo.

“Hey, Cloves. You’re still awake? Not too late for you?”

“Nah, we just landed here, got to the hotel, put our bags down. It’s Ruby’s birthday, isn’t it? Tell her I wish her a happy birthday.”

“You have no idea how happy she’ll be to hear that, that the fantastic mind-boggling Clover Ebi wishes her a happy birthday.”

“I can record a video of the band and I singing Happy Birthday to her, if we get the time. But no one likes it when people over-sing that song. You either scream it out of tune or don’t sing it at all.”

A fond chuckle against the slightly fizzy static background.

“Uh, shamrock, about that...”

“About what? Out of tune things?”

“Nope… well yeah. The piano we’ve got here in Patch is a bit out of tune. Tai doesn’t exactly touch it often.”

“I guess he cares more about his drum sets.”

“But I… I’m writing something.”

“You’re writing something? Qrow, that’s...”

Unexpected? Unusual? Incredible? 

After years of needing alcohol to improvise, to get the emotions flowing, to get that blur that transmutes one note into the next, after years of not being able to compose, improvise, or even play much while trying to stay sober… his fingers touch the piano again. Not just to follow someone else’s melody, but to weave a tapestry out of his own heartstrings, weaving in the stardust, the memories, the memories that remind him that despite everything, despite the scars, despite the seasons of solitude, he isn’t alone. 

It was a few notes at first, like the warning drops before the rain begins to fall. Scant memories of that night with Clover, of Ivy’s song, of the duet they’d started to write lyrics for. And then, new melodies emerged out of chaos, bursting out from stardust and into life, from disorder to order, and then the rain began to fall.

“Qrow, I’m so proud of you.”

“You and the kids, even Raven and Tai have helped more than you can imagine.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. It wouldn’t have worked if you weren’t the amazing person that you are.”

“Thanks, Clover.”

“C’mon, pretty bird. You can’t tease me about a song and leave me hanging.”

“Okay, okay. But just for a little bit. Then Tai wants me to come down for roast.”

“Alright. You should hurry then, lest you want to be the one who gets roasted.”

“Very funny, lucky charm, very funny.”

* * *

If melodies were linear, ever-ascending or ever-descending, they’d be boring, no one would ever listen to them. Instead, they have ups and downs, highs and lows, proud crescendos and intimate decrescendos. 

There’s better days, and there’s hard days. And that’s okay. There’s days where Qrow can write, and days where he stays snuggled in the blankets with a mug of steaming hot chocolate and watches TV, criticising every other music show on there. There’s days where he makes progress on his songs, and days where he goes sledding with the kids, catches a cold, and can’t even properly hum a tune without his voice breaking for the next few days. 

And that’s okay, because he’s not alone.

Musicians are like migrating birds. But amidst the winter solstice, even they take a break. This isn’t show season any more, it’s writing season, recording season. Qrow sits on the piano chair in the dance studio, resting his hands while the girls put on a recorded track to train their new choreography. He needs this break - his hands hurt, gosh, his hands hurt and his mind is mush. It’s hard to get back in shape to play and compose, especially balancing that with his schedule as a band manager, and atop his job as a full-time uncle. 

When he was younger, he could chug down coffee and write, compose, play, and record a full song in one day - but that’s not every day. And that’s okay too, he needs to tell himself. It’s hard to convince himself that it’s fine, that he’s not useless and terrible at his job now, but he needs to tell himself that anyway. 

So he pulls out his Scroll and records a short video of the girls dancing - he know Winter’s trained in ballet, and they’ve gotten closer since Qrow and Clover… well, not really started to date, because the paparazzi would be flocking like flies if that were the case, and well, not really see each other since they’re hardly ever even in the same time zone. But anyway, Winter started to trust Qrow more after realising he’d really quit drinking, and now he’d like to have her feedback on the choreography. 

“ _ Hey Ice Queen, what do you think? _ ”

Only then does he notice another message, linking to a video and simply stating: 

“ _ Listen to our holiday special clip when you have the time :) xoxo _ ”

It’s a well-known song, like every holiday song, and the Atlas Aesop’s outfits are hit or miss as usual, but still, the collision between futuristic Atlesian sound mixing and nostalgic tunes sang generation after generation after generation by families around the fireplace is brutal, broken in the way that each of the pieces falls into the pristine, untouched snow. 

And that alone warrants a phone call. 

“Hi, pretty bird. I guess you got my video.”

“Was it really necessary to dress you guys as… snow elves, or something? You look like you’re Santa’s little helpers but sexier.”

“Studios have strange ideas, you know that. Apparently, they said kids these days love high fantasy or something. At least, you have to admit that my arms look good in that outfit.”

“Clover, your arms always look good. You know that.”

“I needed to hear you say that.”

“Show-off.”

“I love you too.”

“Yeah, I love you, you sappy show-off.”

A pause, a smile, brighter than the brightest of stars. 

“I talked to Ironwood. He’d consider giving you a deal, if you came to work with us in Atlas. And we can figure something out for the Crescent Roses too.”

“We’ve already talked about this. Jimmy’s a good man, but his way of working would immediately obliterate what little inspiration I’m starting to have again.”

“Well, that’s fair.”

“Yeah! That’s fair game!” a female voice calls out from the middle of the rehearsal room.

“Shhhh, Yang. Shamrock, I just know that if I were to accept, I wouldn’t be able to get any of that work done, and then Jimmy’ll be disappointed, and I’ll be depressed, and then you’ll all be disappointed.”

“It’s fine. I was just thinking of ways we could be together.”

“And I appreciate it. I really, really do. You have no idea how much happiness you brought into my life and that of your family. The videos you sent Ruby? Even Tai plays them in the background on the TV on a loop. But no, I don’t want to be forced to dress up as a little elf.”

“You’d look great as an elf.”

“Shush, Cloves.”

“So, what if I got you all plane tickets to come to Atlas for a week? We could go watch the ice skating championships, Winter and Weiss’s brother is entering this year.”

“That kid’s a chaotic brat, and Atlas is too cold this time of year.”

“Even with me around? I’ve been told I’m a great human heater, and you seemed to enjoy wearing my jacket a great deal.”

A slow, deep exhale.

“When springtime comes and we’re done with writing the new album, we’ll find some time to drop by in Atlas. I promise. I miss you, lucky charm.”

“I miss you too.”

* * *

Seasons come, seasons go. 

Qrow and the kids can’t visit Clover in the spring. Ivy’s visiting Clover, because Ivy got sick. Hospitals in Atlas are better-equipped technologically than in the rest of the world, and he needs some time out to take care of her. The press is benevolent about this - a rising rockstar putting his career between brackets to support a relative going through a rough patch. Though someone will post about the fact that the medical condition is genetic, that it took the life of the mother of Clover and Ivy, and that he wasn’t even there for her when she passed. Some people will insinuate he’s only helping out of guilt this time around. 

So when Clover calls Qrow at midnight Atlas time, freshly returned from the hospital, the music that comes out of the line is cacophonic, broken sobs, overflowing with concern, overflowing with frustration. Qrow’s no good singer, but he still does his best to lull his lover to sleep. His song’s changing now - it’s a bittersweet ballad, a lengthy lullaby. But even so, it’s incomplete. And it should be okay, because it should be never ending, but sometimes that’s hard. These days, that’s too hard. 

Tai’s on TV again, and Raven signed a deal to guest star on the same show. People start talking about them getting back together - Qrow knows the truth. Raven and Tai’s songs have been diverging and converging over the years, melding and parting in obvious ways to whom can listen - and now they gravitate around each other again in the immensity of space, spinning out synchronous orbits that never collide. They can heal some scars together, maybe they can get over the trauma and become friends again, but neither of them is interested in dating again. For the better, Qrow thinks. 

Spring is in full bloom in Patch now. The kids and their uncle aren’t there to see, but Tai sends photos of the new flowers he planted. The Crescent Roses are downtown with their manager, amidst the bustling city and ceaseless traffic, it’s almost too loud to hear the music there. But there’s cracks through the pavement, cracks in which flowers bloom. Crazed, scrawny flowers, and sometimes even clovers. Qrow’s never found a four-leafed one in his lifetime, but he already has one lucky plant in his life, and that’s more than enough to warm his heart. 

Even through the brokenness, even through the cracks, they don’t have to be alone. 

Weeks pass, months pass, and finally Clover calls. It’s all over now. The surgery went for the better, and Ivy’s flying back home to Argus. Qrow can visit now. 

The visit is a blur, each note melting into the next, each second, each minute, each day melting until there’s no time left. What did Qrow expect? Loving a rockstar near the peak of his career, constantly scrutinised by media and bloggers, constantly judged for whom he loves, what he says, what he does… There’s not enough time, not enough pauses for the frantic music to breathe, not enough instants of intimacy between raging tempests. 

And then, Qrow flies home, and then, summer comes. 

* * *

Seasons go, new seasons come. 

“ _ When you knew that it was over _

_ Were you suddenly aware _

_ That the autumn leaves were turning _

_ To the colour of her hair? _ ”

As Weiss sings the last note, Ruby scrambles to spread out an arpeggio on the guitar, only to fumble and ask for a repeat. 

“ _ That the autumn leaves were turning _ \- no, I know there’s something wrong, Ruby. I can tell you think there’s something wrong.”

“Uncle Qrow!” the guitarist calls out. “Is there something wrong with the G here?”

“No, it’s perfectly correct,” he mutters, running his fingers through his hair. “Only… a little blah. A little too on the nose, don’t you think? Try G7?”

“Or G9, for even more edginess,” Raven chimes in from the kitchen, twirling a knife that’s not lacking in the edginess department, with very sharp edges at that. 

Qrow’s twin is visiting sometimes in the last days of the summer, they all go to the graveyard together and stand in the silence for a while. It’s like a family tradition. It’s like a pulsation that rhythms their lives, like a ticking clock, like a beating heart. 

“Yeah, Rae’s not wrong,” the pianist agrees. “When the lyrics say it’s over, it’s not only sad, it’s also open. It can be over when we lose someone dear, but it can also be over when we’re ready to move on again, when we can turn the page again, and autumn leaves aren’t just sad, they’re also beautiful. Your arrangement should reflect that. It’s intimate, so no need to span the whole range of your instrument, but it’s also open-ended, like it could land anywhere. Like an autumn leaf… you know, that can land anywhere.”

Dammit, words are hard. Explaining is hard. Playing is easier. 

But he’s had some practice lately, both with playing and explaining. He can do this, or at least he can try. 

“Okay, uncle Qrow. I think I get it,” Ruby nods slowly. “You said mama loved this song, right?”

“Windmills? Yeah. She’d have been proud of what you’re doing now, pipsqueak.”

Summer did love it, when it was a song about obsession and lost love. But after the accident, the meaning changed, like leaves change colour at the end of the summer. The meaning is ever changing, but the melody stays the same, universal, eternal, neverending. 

He ruffles his younger niece’s hair affectionately, before checking the time on his Scroll. They should get going soon, where’s Tai, where’s -

“We got these for the garden, hopefully we’re still on time to go to the cemetery,” Clover announces as he enters the house, dirt on his pants and long-stemmed roses in his hands. “These roses are lovely.”

“Yeah, they’re beautiful,” Qrow responds. “And they smell great, too. Tai didn’t do a bad job, and we’re glad you were there to help. You didn’t get hurt cutting them, did you?”

“Nope, not even a scratch. I got good gloves and good luck on my side.”

“Good. Your fans will be elated to see your perfect arms unharmed on stage.”

“Cut the sap, loverboys,” Raven intervenes, her foot lightly tapping the wooden floor. “We should head out anyway.”

“Tai’s starting the car outside, he’s waiting for you all,” Clover replies. “There’s not enough space in one car, so Qrow and I can take my bike.”

“Right,” Qrow’s sister says. “We’ll meet you there, then.”

“See you, Uncle Qrow.”

Raven and the kids leave in silence - and only then does Qrow realise they had taken off all the clocks hanging from walls and locked them in the basement, because it’s so silent here. There’s only Qrow and Clover now, their respirations entwined in the fleeting quietness. 

“Thanks, Qrow, for allowing me into all of this. I realise it must be very important for your family.”

Clover’s voice is as velvety and voluptuous as ever, but he speaks quietly, as if afraid to disturb the silence. 

“No worries. You’re part of the family now,” Qrow answers equally quietly.

“Thank you. It means a lot to me.”

They kiss gently, barely a brush of lips, breathing in the same air, their mouths meeting again and again because they can’t have enough and they’re running out of time already, and there’s never enough time before all songs must end.

“I wanted to tell you… Jimmy called me,” the keyboardist whispers between kisses.

“... Oh?”

“And I accepted the deal. The girls accepted it too.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

Clover should sound infinitely more ecstatic about this, but it doesn’t seem appropriate with the anniversary they’re going to commemorate in mere minutes at the cemetery. Most of the roses are for her grave, but Clover can steal a single one and gently tuck it behind his lover’s ear, like one steals a single instant out of the immensity of time, the neverending immensity of time. 

“Did I tell you how much I love you?” Qrow whispers, caressing the soft white petals brushing against his temple. 

Clover seems lost in thought, lost in memories, which leaves Qrow more perplexed than anything. Until he remembers the first time he agreed to play for Ivy, the first time he took Clover’s riff like an offered hand and ran with it on the piano, planted the motif like a seed into the ground so they could watch the flowers bloom together, the first time he edited their duet under the lamplight and the starlight in Clover’s notebook, the first time they kissed under the starlight and lamplight, all the times they talked on the phone, all the times he listened to Clover’s cries, all the nights they’d lulled each other to sleep. 

Seasons had passed, seasons had changed, but their feelings have always been there - coalescent, ever-growing, neverending. 

Clover doesn’t answer the question - the older man already knows the answer. He’s always known. And besides, words are imperfect, words have endings, words have spaces, gaps, silences between them, words can’t express the neverending essence of his feelings for Qrow. 

“Qrow, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I love you.”

Fortunately, Clover has a whole lifetime to show him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh I dunno what to say dfksqdfqgfgsjjds  
> I LOVE Windmills Of Your Mind an I also read it as a grief song in personal context, oh gosh that song is beautiful.  
> leave a comment to say hi if you've read this far, I'll love you forever :)  
> I'm doing Qrowtober these days so if you liked this and you like best birb uncle you can check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747092/chapters/65252413). Not every day is Fair Game, most chapters rather gen, but the FG days will be labeled as such in chapter titles, as will any other ships so you can pick/avoid what you want ;)


End file.
